


A Foreign Country

by potentiality_26



Category: Identity (TV)
Genre: F/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Past John/Adile, Post-Series
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-08
Updated: 2017-12-08
Packaged: 2019-02-11 21:55:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12944790
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/potentiality_26/pseuds/potentiality_26
Summary: There was just something about the way they were all standing together, the four of them and him- because it was always the four of them and him, wasn’t it?  He could work with Martha and joke with Tessa and chat with Jose and even- very occasionally- converse civilly with Anthony, but he was always still... apart.  Not quite on their wavelength.  And he realized he didn’t want it to be like that, not anymore, and it hurt because it was too late.And then he looked at Martha, at how beautiful she was when she laughed, and he thought:like hell it is.Picking up the pieces.





	A Foreign Country

**Author's Note:**

> The title comes from the quote "The past is a foreign country; they do things differently there" by L.P. Hartley, which obviously reminded me of a certain someone. 
> 
> Not Brit-picked.

Martha didn’t know why she did this to herself.  Why she looked for him all the rest of the day, whenever she saw a flash of black or heard the creak of leather.  Why she convinced Tessa and Jose to go that night, insisted she wouldn’t drown in the bath or anything if they left her alone, that it was _fine_ when it wasn’t, just so she could call and hear his stupid voice on his stupid voicemail one more time. 

Because it was always one more time, wasn’t it?  One more ride on the merry-go-round.  One more time asking him out for drinks, one more time covering for him, one more time watching him vanish and then show up again like it was nothing, nothing at all.  One more time hoping he’d open up a little, not even a lot- she didn’t expect that brick wall to become a window overnight, a chink would do, just something to show that he saw her reaching out.  That there was somebody still in there who might reach back one day.

But maybe she was actually hoping that she wouldn’t hear it this time.  Maybe she was hoping the number would be disconnected- a full stop, a period at the end of the whole miserable thing.  Maybe she-

“Martha?”

She hadn’t let herself hope for that one at all.  That John would actually answer her call. 

He was silent for a beat when she didn’t say anything.  She didn’t want him to think she had called by accident and hang up and go back to whatever he was doing- but for some reason she couldn’t make herself say anything either.  “You doing all right?” he finally asked.

“Not really,” she admitted at last. 

Another silence, then, “Want some company?”

“Are you sure you can manage that?” she heard herself asking.  She cursed herself inwardly.  She felt like she was back in that garage again- breathless, aching, floating above the ground but far, far from weightless. 

“I think so,” he said.  “My dance card has opened up recently.”

There were too many threads in his voice- grief, anger, fear, amusement, relief- for her to easily pick just the ones she liked out from among them, but she did try until she heard a knock at her door.  She went to the window, the one overlooking the front step, and peered out.

And she saw John down there.  He backed off, always so light on his feet, so quick, so energetic.  He looked unerringly up at her. 

“How long have you been out there?” she asked him.

“Too long not to be weird,” he told her, a smile tugging at his lips but leaving his eyes untouched.  “I wanted to apologize.  So.  I’m sorry.”

On those last two words his voice went almost loud enough for her to hear him through the window as well as through the phone, almost loud enough for the neighbors to hear him too- but considering what some of their kids got up to at all hours she figured if they did they owed her this. 

“The job fucked me up,” he said.  “Surprise.”

She couldn’t help it.  She snorted out a laugh.  She could never help it with him, never stay angry however much she wanted to. 

Then his voice went quiet again, quiet enough that she had to strain to hear him at all.  “I’m used to not having choices, you know?  I’m used to just taking what comes and hoping it doesn’t kill me.  And I got choices now, more than I need of them probably, and I don’t want to make the wrong one.  But when you don’t know who you are, pretending to be somebody else for the rest of your life doesn’t seem like such a big deal.”

She swallowed.  “Are you pretending to be somebody else now?”

“I hope not,” he told her, just like he had once before. 

And she kept remembering something else he had told her once before.  Remembering how he called that woman- Sandra or Miriam or whoever she was meant to be- _Nadia_ like he knew, like he understood, like for him it went without saying.  Remembering how she had wondered even then- back before she knew how bad things could still get- if that was the missing piece to the puzzle.  If he was just more Brenden Shea than John Bloom now.  If after so long he couldn’t possibly be otherwise. 

“Anyway,” he said.  “I’m sorry.  I’m sorry I put you in danger.  I’m sorry about a lot of things.” 

He backed up a little more, and the light from a streetlamp fell across his face.  And he looked... almost unearthly, and as always too handsome for his own good and for her peace of mind.  And she wanted to take his apology and get on with things, just like she always did, but... "Where you were you all day, then?" she asked.  "When-" _When I still thought you might never come back?_

His hands were in his pockets and it looked so boyish when he shrugged.  “Had some business to take care of.”

She waited, pointlessly, for more information, and when she finally resigned herself to not getting any she said, “Come inside, John.”

“Door’s locked, I checked.”

“I _was_ just kidnapped,” she reminded him.  She went downstairs, remembering only as she did so that she was barefoot, hair wet, in a robe and nothing else.  There wasn’t much to be done about that now, though, so she threw open the door.

He was still a distance away, practically out in the street, but he met her eyes and there was something shy and almost awed in his expression. 

She didn’t know everything about him and she probably never would, but she did know this: he wasn’t used to having choices, like he said, and he also wasn’t used to letting somebody else watch his back.  And every time she thought his issues were way more than she had ever signed up to carry, every time she remembered Wainwright telling her John was damaged goods, telling her not to try to fix him, and thought he was right after all, John would go and give her a look like that. 

Like she had remade the world just then, and he was looking at it brand new.

When he came in she felt awkward, not sure where to go or what to say, and he reached out, caught her hand.  His thumb passed over her pulse-point, feather light across the bruises on her wrists.  “Sorry,” he told her.

"You said that," she reminded him, and laughed.  And then she thought maybe she wasn’t laughing- maybe she was crying- and then she did know what to say.  “He really got into my head,” she whispered.  She hadn’t admitted that to the others, hadn’t expected to admit it to him either. 

But the way he smiled at her like an open wound let her know it was the right choice.  Because only he had any hope of understanding what she meant.

Only... that understanding was too much and too little at once, suddenly.  Her skin felt ill fitted to her body and she wondered if she didn’t actually want him to leave her alone after all.  Because she wanted more from him than understanding, she always had.  She wanted more from him than he would probably ever be able to give. 

Except... except that she knew, suddenly, that this _was_ him reaching back for her, in his way.  And if she batted him away now he wouldn’t come back, no matter how many bridges he had just burned to save her, and to be here with her now.  

Wainwright had told her not to try to fix John Bloom, and she had shut her teeth around everything that she really wanted to say. 

_If he’s broken it’s because we broke him.  We shouldn’t get to walk away._

And she didn’t want to.  She turned her hand underneath his to squeeze his fingers, and that pained smile shuddered and twisted and reformed into something that hurt in an entirely different way.  Something that was all hope.

He tugged her closer, slow, and let out a breath- and for a single wild moment she thought he might kiss her. 

But then he simply laid his forehead against hers.  And for the first time in a long time she felt like she was floating in all the best ways.

*   *   *

**Before**

It was lucky, John supposed, that he wasn’t in the habit of explaining himself to anyone- because he had no idea how he would ever explain this.  He wasn’t even sure he could explain it to himself.

There was just something about the way they were all standing together, the four of them and him- because it was always the four of them and him, wasn’t it?  He could work with Martha and joke with Tessa and chat with Jose and even- very occasionally- converse civilly with Anthony, but he was always still... apart.  Not quite on their wavelength.  And he realized he didn’t want it to be like that, not anymore, and it hurt because it was too late. 

And then he looked at Martha, at how beautiful she was when she laughed, and he thought: _like hell it is_. 

He still loved Adile.  A part of him always would.  But that part, the part that was mostly Brenden Shea, wasn’t one he could afford to defer to anymore.  Martha was right about one thing- actually, Martha was right about a lot of things, but what mattered in the moment was that what he and Adile had was wonderful and terrible and _fucked_.  She didn’t know who he was; half the time _he_ didn’t know who he was, but he did know that he was hardly ever the man she expected him to be anymore, and sooner or later it would break both their hearts if it didn’t get one of them killed first.  His life- John Bloom’s life- hadn’t felt properly like his since he got back, but he couldn’t just let it wither away.  He hadn’t wanted to, not since he met Martha.  Not since she looked at him and saw something that made her think he deserved better than to be consigned to the scrap heap with all the other broken dolls.  So he stood outside that garage and thought about how in trying to live two lives he had cocked them both up so spectacularly.  And he knew it was time to finally make a fucking choice.

And he chose. 

And then after he looked at Martha he looked at Anthony, and he knew that if they didn’t come to some sort of détente this whole thing was dead on arrival anyway. 

He went to Adile, and he knew that this wouldn’t be the last he saw of her.  And then, once he was alone, he looked out across the water and said, “Still following me, are you?”

“I was really hoping you’d get on that damn boat,” Anthony replied, coming to rest beside him. 

“But you knew that I wouldn’t.”  John didn't look at him; he just started moving away from the water, toward a little patch of park not too far away.  

“Yes.”

“So.”  John finally turned around, finally looked at Anthony always, always dogging at his heels.  “What do you want?”  Anthony opened his mouth and John lifted a hand.  “To never see me again, I got that- but it looks to me like we’re at something of an impasse.  The only thing you really have on me would still implode your life almost as much as mine.  And I’m not expecting you to _like_ me- but there has to be something.  I know because you put up with me well enough when the job is on the line.  Because you’re a good little foot soldier, aren’t you?  And if they say results are what counts, then results are what counts.”      

Anthony stood there, silent, but over the short distance between them John could hear his teeth grinding. 

 _Good_.  John flopped down on a nearby bench and just watched him, carefully.  "Is my record the problem?  Me getting all the attention, the glory?" 

Judging from the way Anthony's lips flattened out, he'd already struck a nerve.  

So he kept going: "Because you spent your whole life playing by the rules and where did it get you?  Right next to _me_.  And that scares you, doesn’t it?  Because you can resent me all you like for setting so much as a toe outside the neat little lines of right and wrong you’ve drawn for yourself, and you can tell yourself all you like that you’re better than me, but you know it’s not true.  You know if they ever asked of you what they asked of me it would _break_ you.  You know the main difference between you and me is luck.  And along comes Martha and suddenly I'm right there again, ahead of you.”

Anthony stayed quiet, but John could tell that he was _seething_.  John was admittedly not entirely collected himself.  This kind of thing was what he was good at, what he’d always been good at- getting a read on people, using their weaknesses to get a rise out of them.  He could do it to just about anyone he wanted, but that didn’t mean he enjoyed it.  He doubted anyone- except maybe Martha- had any idea what it took out of him.

And though Anthony probably thought differently, he wasn’t enjoying it now.  But they needed to get on the same page about this- and this was the only way John could think of.  He wasn’t actually very good at talking to people when he wasn’t breaking them into their component parts.  “And talking of Martha, is that just professional jealousy, or-"

One moment Anthony's fingers were curled into a fist, and the next they were flying up.  Anthony held himself back from actually hitting John, but for a beat, then two, it looked like a near thing.

John had been ready for the hit.  He could take a lot of punishment if he had to, and he had decided before he set out to bait Anthony that in this case he had to.  If anything, he was more surprised that Anthony hadn't.  Anthony had been scared, when John pulled that gun on him.  He had been scared for a long time after.  John would have expected that to manifest as anger the second time around, become aggression, fight rather than flight.

But Anthony slowly lowered his raised fist.  He was breathing as hard as if he'd actually connected, and he collapsed onto the bench next to John.   

“That looked like a yes to me,” John said.  It felt like the tension between them had snapped a moment ago, but it wasn't quite gone.  “So has all of this been about her?”

“Oh, fuck you,” Anthony spat, with none of the energy he'd had before.  It was like it was evaporating.  “You’ve been tearing her apart since she met you, it’s what you do.  And I wouldn't sink to your level.”

“No?”   

“You’re a killer.”

John looked straight ahead, out across the water.  Mostly it was enough for him to know that he wasn’t.  That he hadn’t killed Anthony even when it would solve all his problems, that he'd never killed anyone, but sometimes the urge to defend himself was almost too strong.  And yet wherever he stood with Adile, he wouldn’t put that on her just to make himself look more righteous.  Not ever.  She’d only been trying to fix his mess, after all.  

Anthony shot him another venomous look.  “And for the record, Martha’s my _friend_.”

John let out a breath.  Anthony was still angry.  He would probably always be at least a little bit angry.  But something did, finally, feel different.  "Well, I’d say that you haven’t been such a great friend to her lately- except, I figure, people in glass houses and all that.”

Anthony actually snorted out a laugh at that.  “She doesn’t want to be just your friend.”

“I’ve worked that out, thanks.”  He hadn’t been sure, for probably too long.  He was good at reading people, most of the time, but that didn’t mean he never failed when it mattered.  Anthony had proved that just now.  Martha had been proving that since he met her.   

“And so you’re not leaving.”

“That’s not the only reason, but… Yeah.  And I’m gonna try to fuck up less.  And I’m gonna do whatever I have to do to be somebody you could work with, all right?  So if you need to get a few licks in after all, or take credit for my next ten brilliant insights, or whatever, you let me know.”

“Fuck you,” Anthony said again, but with less energy that time.  John even heard a little humor still in his voice. 

“Whatever it is, though, you figure it out soon.  Because I am staying.  And if it comes to a fight-” 

“We’ll see who wins?” Anthony’s voice was sharp, but also... not defeated, exactly, just like he knew when to retreat, even just a little, and despite the baiting tone of his words he clearly figured that this was one of those times. 

“Something like that.”  John replied.  And because- all evidence to the contrary- he knew when to retreat too, he left Anthony to his thoughts.  He had the remnants of one life to get rid of- and once he'd done that, he'd go to Martha and see about salvaging this one.  

*   *   *

Martha couldn’t remember the last time she took more than a few days off on a stretch, let alone the whole week Wainwright had strong-armed her into.  If she thought that she was itchy before, it was nothing compared to how she felt those last days waiting to get back into the thick of it.  She tried knitting, which she hated, and origami, which she hated a little less, and maybe she learned some things about herself- but when the time came she was really, really ready to go back. 

When she arrived, Anthony was leaning against the wall near the elevator, drinking coffee.  “Feeling better?” he asked with a tiny smile. 

She nodded.  “Ready to get back to it.  You?”

He nodded too.  “Wainwright has something for us.  Tessa’s ready to run a briefing.”

“Right.  And...”  Suddenly she remembered all the times she had asked Anthony where John was, all the times he hadn’t known, all the times none of them had.  Suddenly she couldn’t ask, just like she couldn’t call John all that week, afraid to find he had changed his mind and disappeared all over again.

Anthony’s eyebrows lifted.  “Bloom?”

She let out a breath and made herself ask.  “Is he here?”

Instead of answering, Anthony jerked his chin toward their offices.  Martha peered out through the glass and saw them all sitting at the table- Tessa with two computers in front of her, John and Jose talking to each other over files.  Jose did give John the occasional odd look, at if he was expecting the hidden cameras to be revealed at any moment, and Tessa did seem to be holding herself back, just a little, in a way she hadn't before- but for the most part they seemed to have accepted him back into the fold without question.  But, of course, they knew so little about what had happened.

Anthony, though.  He knew.  Sometimes she thought he knew more than she did- and more than she wanted to, as well.  “Is this going to be okay?  Can you work with him?”

She should have asked him that more than she did.  Judging by the look on his face, Anthony felt similarly.  He laughed, a little bitter.  “I think I’m going to have to,” he said finally.  Then, “He... he’s been here all week, doing everyone’s busy work.”  And he sounded impatient, judgmental, cold- all the things he always sounded where John Bloom was concerned- but also a tiny bit impressed.  Like he had expected John to give up on his own far more than he had ever expected to drive him out.  Like he appreciated how useful John was if nothing else.  Like he could maybe see what the rest of them saw in John- or at least like he could come to, given enough time.

That was going to have to be enough for now.  She could only hope that they did, actually, have time. 

*   *   *

**Way Before**

Of the team John met Martha first, obviously, and Anthony second.  There was a kind of instantaneous rapport with Martha, and an equally instantaneous animosity with Anthony- possibly as a result of the rapport with Martha.  And even though they probably got on the best, he met Tessa last and without particular fanfare.

Meeting Jose... that happened right in the middle.

The identity unit was only just getting started.  Martha knew she needed a tech but she was still looking for one mad enough to give up a cushier position for a team that might implode on itself in a week.  John was, as ever, on the sidelines- part and not part at the same time.  He was all right when he had something to do, but the unit was still finding its feet and there wasn’t anywhere enough work to keep him from thinking about-

From thinking. 

And then Martha introduced him to Jose.  He was so young, so fresh, so shiny.  A newly minted DC eager to start working.  He knew a little about John- back then everybody knew a little about John.  Not enough to get a full picture, not enough to really understand- if indeed anyone could possibly understand- but a little.  That was what came up first, as he clasped John’s and smiled and said, “Bloom... you’re the one who did all the undercover work, yeah?”

“That’s right,” John replied.  His own smile was a little too toothy and bright- but sometimes he didn’t know how to calibrate his expressions anymore.

“Cool,” Jose said.

John didn’t know how reply to that, if indeed a reply was expected.  It _was_ cool, wasn’t it?  How being Brenden Shea was easy as breathing by the end, and now that for the first time in fifteen years he wasn’t supposed to be pretending, wasn’t supposed to be ‘on’, wasn’t supposed to talk just so and move just so and _be_ just so not to inspire suspicion- now that he was just supposed to be himself- he couldn’t even smile right. 

Cool. 

*   *   *

Martha had had a little too much to drink. 

It wasn’t because things were going badly; honestly, she couldn’t remember the last time they had gone better.  Her unit had an exemplary record and plenty of good assignments coming up, and everyone was playing nice, especially John.  He came to work on time, he did his job, he toed the line.  Even Anthony had no complaints.

It had taken her a while to work up the courage- or maybe it was the energy- to ask him out for drinks again, but eventually she had.  And he had answered his phone when she called, and said he’d love to, and he really did come, and... it was fun.  Apart from the tiny piece of her that was so used to everything going wrong all the time that she couldn’t stop waiting for the other shoe to drop, she was having the best night out she had in ages. 

And then she started drinking and she just didn’t stop.  Maybe because she didn't want it to be over. 

John spent most of the evening watching her with amusement- and fondness too, she thought.  In a perfect world there would have been an intensity, a heat, to his gaze that there wasn’t- but Martha was very aware, at this point, that she did not live in a perfect world. 

She noticed, in the part of her mind that was still noticing things and filing them away for later consideration, that the level of his drink- about half finished- hadn’t changed in a while.  They were talking, and he was paying her a lot of attention, but even so she didn’t think he could be that distracted.  She was sure she had seen him sipping, even- more often than the actual amount in the glass would suggest.  So maybe he was actively avoiding drinking too much.  It must have become habit for him, over the years, to fake it a little.  It was probably just one more thing that John did without thinking, the unavoidable effect of fifteen years' practice. 

“You all right?” John asked, leaning close to be heard over the music and lifting an eyebrow at her.  “You went quiet.”

Martha didn’t know what to say.  It always raised the hair on her arms a little, when he read her like he did.  It was magnificent and scary at the same time.  Not, of course, that he probably needed any special powers of detection to know she was pensive at the moment.  She had had way too much to drink to hide her maudlin train of thought, and it was maudlin.  She always got sad when she thought about what he’d been through.  She always got sad when she thought that there might be no way to help him.

And what would she say?  _It’s all right if you drink water, or convince me to get coffees instead of drinks, or anything, anything you need to feel safe for a minute?_   Or maybe _it’s all right if you lose control in front of me, I can take it?  I can take_ you _?_ Sometimes she thought that last one was going to come out of her mouth one day whether she planned it or not, but most of the time she knew better.  She wasn’t sure, in truth, if she _could_ handle everything that might come spilling out of him if he ever let it; and if he did, and she couldn’t... there might not be any coming back from that, not for either of them. 

So instead she just sat there, looking at him glumly.

He laughed softly, one of the most genuine laughs she thought she had ever heard from him, and rose.  "C'mon," he said.  “Let’s get out of here, yeah?”  He put some money on the table and stretched out a hand for her, still smiling faintly.  He really did look... content in a way she had never seen from him before- and it was difficult, looking at him, not to smile back in a slightly ridiculous fashion.

Martha took his hand and he pulled her up, gently, and led her toward the door.  He was so warm against her side, so right where she needed him to be right when she needed him to be there- and it wasn’t like she had forgotten all the times when he wasn’t, it was just... enough for now.  And it made her feel secure and sad at the same time, because hadn’t she just been thinking about how he got like that?  So present, so aware, so perceptive.  Because he had forgotten what it felt like not to have to be.  Not to read a person in a split second, because it was actually okay to misunderstand a situation or misinterpret a signal, it was actually not the end of the world.  Only for him it was.  For him it might always be.

It was cold outside, and walking out into it was a shock that made her huddle a little tighter against him.  He made a soft huffing sound, maybe another laugh, and she felt his mouth light against the side of her head. 

“I think I drank too much,” she said.

“I think so too,” he replied, another huff of breath sliding warmly across her ear.  “Don’t worry.  Your secret’s safe with me.”

It hadn’t occurred to her to think otherwise.  After all, there wasn’t a secret under the sun that he wouldn’t keep unless there was a legitimate reason to do otherwise.  And he was the closest to her equal in rank; he was the only one of her coworkers that she would even think about doing something like this with without worrying about whether it might undermine her position. 

She tripped on a bit of uneven concrete and it jarred her even closer to him.  She turned to let her forehead come to rest against his.  She had had that touch in her mind ever since the first time he did it, and it felt even better now.  The streetlights cast pretty shadows across his face, and his eyes- always such a dark shade of blue- looked even darker. 

“I always feel safe with you,” she heard herself say.  And when he didn't try to back off or put space between them she felt herself getting closer.  It was late, but not so late that cars and people didn’t occasionally pass them by.  And yet she hardly noticed them at all; it was as if the whole world had narrowed to just the two of them.  “John.”

His eyelids fluttered faintly and still he didn’t move.  “Martha,” he said.

“What happened with you and Adile?”  Martha's face reddened.  She shouldn’t have said that, she knew, but certainly it was better than kissing him when she knew full well it wouldn’t be appreciated.  A combination of guesswork and the things Kemal had told her in that garage had led Martha to what at least felt like an answer about John’s distance and caginess.  It wasn’t an answer she particularly liked, though- because while it didn’t seem like he was seeing her anymore it was still difficult to imagine that the book was entirely closed. 

John let out a huff of breath.  He wasn’t expecting that, clearly, but maybe he had been expecting it a little more than she had.  Maybe he had been waiting for her to ask that question for a long time.   “Things with Adile were... complicated.  Maybe they still are.”

“Right.”  In the end it was Martha drawing away, trying unsteadily to put some space between them.  She shouldn’t have asked him that, not on a night like this, and that was on her- but it was on him that even after so long he was still so incredibly evasive.

He caught her arm.  “Martha, wait.  I’m trying, yeah?  It _was_ complicated, that’s honestly the best way I can describe it.”

She didn’t look back at him, but she did go still.

“I was on the fringes for a long time.  I was useful, and people liked me, but I was never really one of them.  It took years for me to even meet Adile.  I’d seen her before, from a distance, but we were on very different levels.  But then I did and she... of course I liked her.  And she liked me.  And Adile always got what she wanted.”

That made Martha turn around.

“I’m not trying to put this on her," he said quickly.  "I’m not trying to say that she... forced me into a relationship- I’m trying to explain that when I say it was complicated I’m not keeping things from you- I’m telling you that I didn’t have the luxury of doing anything for only one reason, not back then.  And would Brenden Shea really have turned down a woman like that?”

“No,” she said.  She’d always known that was part of it, maybe even most of it, but it hardly explained everything that happened after. 

“But even that wasn’t all there was to it.”  It was like once he had started explaining he couldn't stop.  This was the first time he had said so much about himself without a case to hide it behind- certainly to her, and maybe to anyone.  “I was undercover for so _long_ , Martha.  Too long, maybe.  How much of that time do you really think I spent sorting through what Brenden would do and what I would?  In the end it was automatic- it had to be or I would've gotten myself killed a long time ago.  And all that was before I was tortured.  You heard about that, yeah?”

She nodded.

“I thought I was dead.  There was a point when I even wanted to be.  And I woke up- not in hospital, in Halit Kemal's house.  I’m sure you know how people like that prefer to keep any medical treatment in the family, so to speak.  And after that, after everything I went through without giving anything- or anyone- up, they trusted me.  Really trusted me.  To an extent the police mostly only dream of.  It took Adile’s influence to get me really in with Nazar, but the hard part was over.  I wasn’t thinking about that at the time, though.  I was bedridden and drugged to the gills, and in a house full of people I had been betraying regularly for years.  And there's nothing watching how much you drink can do about a situation like that."

After that she couldn't help giving him a tiny smile.  Because from the twitch of his lips and the gleam in his eyes she could see that he knew she'd seen how little he drank, knew she'd guessed why.  Knew she got him, at least a little.

He went on: "I can’t look back on those weeks without being astonished that I never gave myself away.  I didn’t because everything I said and everything I felt was completely genuine.  I’d been alone so long that those people really did become my family.  That house really did become my home.  And I would have done anything for them.   It’s not that I made it thirteen years without being compromised or getting attached or losing track of who I really was- I was all those things.  Compromised.  Attached.  Lost.  And Adile came to see me every day.  The attraction had been there before, like I said.  I'd avoided her for a while- it was a pretty dance, one she probably looked at as foreplay, but in those weeks I lived in that house, with that family catering to my every whim... If I had been able to say I didn’t have feelings for her, that would have the end of it.  But I did.  I did, and Brenden Shea did, and the lines between us might as well not have existed anymore.”

“And then your superiors finally pulled you out.”

He nodded.  “Yeah.  And at first.... at first it seemed like something that I could just ignore, but I couldn’t.  I had spent fifteen years building some other life while my own gathered dust.  I had nothing, and I didn't think it would be long before the force drummed me out and I had even less.  And then you came along.  And you made me realize that I did have a life, that I did have a self, that if I threw it all away I’d live to regret it.  And that was complicated too.  Because I was holding on to her, and who she needed me to be, too.  It would've been better to have had a clean break, but by then I’d seen her again- and again, and again- and it felt like it was too late.  But in the end I stayed here with you, and it’s over with her.  But that doesn’t feel like enough.  Not yet.  Not while it’s still...”

“Complicated?”

“Yeah.  Complicated.”

She had gravitated toward him again while he was speaking.  She hadn’t been able to help it, and suddenly they were as close together as they had ever been.  She kept trying to figure out what he was really saying to her.  It had always seemed to her unlikely, especially after everything that had happened before her kidnapping and then after, that John didn’t know how she felt about him.  He was, after all, the most perceptive man she knew.  How could he miss a thing like that?

So maybe he was trying to tell her that it wasn’t that he didn’t feel the same way, not exactly.  It wasn’t that there was nothing there, or that there couldn’t be something there in time- it was that he was going to need a _lot_ of time, and he was afraid to ask her for it. 

He had just told her that he had known the force would drum him out after his file got into wider circulation.  He had known exactly what was going to happen- how the police would use him until he had nothing left, until he hardly knew how to be a person anymore, and then leave him to rot.  And a part of him saw everything that way, might see everything that way for a long time.  He couldn’t look at himself as someone who was worth helping out, worth waiting for, worth standing beside.  And maybe she couldn’t fix that, not now and maybe not ever, but she could at least try.

And if she ended up waiting months or even years for nothing?  Well.  She thought it was worth it.         

“All right,” she said quietly.

He nodded jerkily and kissed her on the cheek.  That hardly seemed like the right description, though, when he was so close to her.  His whole face slid across hers- his nose rubbing her nose, his jaw brushing against her jaw, his lips slipping over her lips for just a second before fixing to her cheek.  Her stomach felt like it was doing backflips, and she reached out to touch his forearms.  “Let me get you home,” he said, his voice soft near her ear. 

“All right,” she said again.

*   *   *

**Way Way Before**

John had been cleared for active duty by more doctors, therapists, and instructors than he had thought even existed before now, and he knew that they were all wrong.  It was a celebrated tradition, the pretending to be okay, the acting casual about things, the... if not lying outright then certainly the skirting of truth.  But he was a little- a lot- more not okay than usual, and just because he had run the gauntlet again this time didn’t mean it was over.

For now his old bosses would be playing their cards close to the vest.  They always did- and more in this case than any other because anything he had been through he had been through because they decided not to pull him out.  Not after those first few collars that went so smoothly.  Not after he was under longer than anyone ever had been before, and then longer still.  Not after he was nearly killed.  Not after he had every chance in the world to break his cover while his brain to mouth filter was completely shot and he was living with those people day in and day out.  Not after they must have known that that house felt more like home than his own ever would again.  Oh, they would be stingy with his records indeed.

But in the end people would find out, and they would be finished with him.  So why was he even hanging around?  He didn’t know how to be a copper anymore, he didn’t know how to be almost anything anymore, but it was better than nothing- that was why.  It didn’t feel like enough.

He had been trying to get drunk about it for the last half hour. 

He was at a nearby pub, one where they knew all the regulars but they didn’t know him anymore, and he kept finding excuses to do anything, everything, but touch the drink in front of him.  He watched the people, mostly; he thought about who they were, what they were doing, what their secrets and problems were.  It was one thing he had actually gotten better at- reading people.  It would be a shame if he never got to put it to use. 

He had chosen a spot for himself at the back, where he had a good view of everyone coming in and going out, and that was when he saw her.  She was neat, practical and perhaps a little matronly in her skirt-suit, but pretty all the same.  She walked in with a little more purpose than most people, eyes slipping around like she was looking for someone in particular.  On a date?  No, not unless she in a rocky place with the person she was seeing.  The set of her jaw was too determined- the look of a woman used to getting pushed and having to push back.  A blind date she didn’t expect to go well, that would fit better.  And the way she was looking around was in keeping with it too- like she wasn’t positive she would know the person she was looking for on sight. 

But maybe those thoughts were colored by... unreasonable assumptions.  It was just as likely, given her dress, that it was a business meeting of some kind and nothing like a date at all.  A business meeting she didn’t expect to go well, then.  The pub was popular with detectives- that was why he was there, to get a feel for being a policeman again, even in a small way- and it was entirely likely that she was one.  But who was she looking for?  And why was there that faintly hopeful something in her eyes that didn’t quite fit with the narrative that she was here for work alone?

Aware that he would probably never get answers to these questions, John went back to scanning the room- but his eyes were drawn to her again.  She was scanning the room too, and this second time her gaze caught his and stuck there.

He swallowed, feeling awkward.  He knew that any moment she would glance away and they would continue in their separate lives, that he would likely never see her again, never know what her business was, but there was something about her that still fascinated him, and he couldn’t quite look away.  So he didn’t, and then she didn’t either.  In fact, her lips quirked upward into a smile he suspected was meant to be non-threatening, and she approached him.

“Excuse me,” she said.  “You’re DI Bloom, right?”  She knew him now or she probably wouldn’t have asked, but she seemed a little unsure how to handle the situation. 

For a while, he was silent, trying to figure out what it meant if she was actually here looking for _him_.  He nodded. 

“I was told I might find you here.”  Her eyes fixed to his glass like she wondered whether it was his third or fourth rather than his first.  He admitted inwardly that it didn’t make him look particularly sharp, that she’d been told to find him in a pub, but then why should he care?  It wasn’t as if he knew this woman, or had any particular reason to want her to think well of him.  And yet... he did want her to.

He set his drink aside, sitting up.  “What can I do for you?”

She looked unsure for another beat, perhaps two, then she set her jaw and met his eyes very seriously.  “I’d like you to work for me.”

“What do you do?” John asked, though he was sure- by then- that she was with the police.

Her mouth quirked a little more, her eyes showing genuine excitement, and she stuck out a hand.  “I’m DSI Martha Lawson.  I’m putting together a team.  I’d like you to be part of it.”

He tilted his head to one side.  “Why?”

“Because I’ve heard you’re the best,” she said.  “And I want the best.”

He finally took her hand.  Her fingers were cold.  “I warn you, there are those who think my days being the best are behind me.”

She looked him dead on and said, “I don’t.”

And he _did_.  He did think there was a good chance that he would never again be good at the only thing he was ever good at.  But the last fifteen years had taught him one thing, and they had taught it very well indeed: he could absolutely be the man he saw in someone else’s eyes.  Maybe not forever, maybe not for nearly long enough, but for a while.  He wanted to be the man he saw in hers.

And maybe along the way, he would find something real.

*   *   *

Martha woke up with a bit of a headache. 

There hadn’t been a lot of time for drinking over the last year, because when John came back he came back with a vengeance and the team’s record was, like his, second to none.  She had turned down several cushy positions to keep the team together; she was fairly sure even Anthony had by now.  And the night before they had celebrated- a holiday party that she was feeling the effects of now.

It wasn’t too bad.  A little water, a shower maybe, and she’d be as good as new.

She rolled over and went still when she hit a warm body and realized that she wasn’t alone.  The night before came back to her a little as she opened her eyes.  John, down to a t-shirt and jeans but still mostly dressed, was lying on top of the covers beside her. 

He was awake too, and he smiled gently when he saw that she was looking at him.  “How do you feel?”

“Not bad,” she replied.  She did feel a little guilty, though.  It really was rare that she drank much, but ever since that first night they went out together he had made a habit of taking her home, and she had wanted him to.  If anything, she had pretended to be drunker than she was to that end.  She probably shouldn’t have asked him to stay, but she had asked and he had seemed content to obey. 

And now he was here and she was pressed up against his side, his face so close to hers on the pillow she could practically taste him. 

“What about you?” she asked quietly.

He laughed softly, just a huff of breath across her face.  “I feel fine.”    

The crinkles around his eyes and mouth were so pleasant looking.  She pressed a little closer, and he just kept looking at her.  A year was a long time to wait, but over time she had gotten used to it.  They were friends, and she liked being his friend.  She liked getting to know him as he got to know himself.  But she did still have other, deeper, feelings for him.  She did still think about how it would be, to have his lips on hers.  To have him take her home and stay, and not like this.  Stay in her arms.  Stay maybe for good. 

Suddenly, she couldn’t _not_ try.  She pressed even closer, and the heat on the air was palpable, and-

The alarm on her bedside table went off.

She groaned, half sure she would blink and find him gone.  But no, he was still there beside her, and her head was still aching faintly.  “We have to tell the others no more parties when we have work tomorrow.”

John’s eyes only crinkled further.  “We always have work.”

He was right, of course.  It was the price of being so good at what they did. 

The moment, such as it had been, was ruined- so Martha pulled herself up and said, “Better get ready, then,” she said.  “Do you need a lift home or anything?”  Though he had driven last night, it had been her car. 

He sat up too, pulling his legs into his chest.  “I’ve got a change of clothes back at the office, actually.  Unless... unless you’d like me to go.”

It took her a moment to realize that he was asking if she wanted him to go home so they wouldn’t be seen coming in to work together.  He was still that way, after everything.  He still expected to be the dirty little secret, kept close when it suited but easily discarded in the name of pride or reputation or the bottom fucking line.  “Stay,” was all she said. 

He smiled softly.

She pulled herself forward a little, feet touching the cool floor.  “Although maybe not just here,” she said, meaning the bedroom.  She wanted to get dressed, and while she did very much like the idea of him seeing her _un_ dressed these weren’t the circumstances she wanted it under. 

He snorted and scooted forward.  “Yeah,” he said.  “Why don’t I make us some coffee?”

He padded out of the room and Martha stood up, heading for the bathroom to clean herself up a little.   She could hear him, distantly, using the downstairs one, and she hoped it wouldn't be too long before he had reason to stay up here with her.  Before they made room for each other going about their morning routine.  Before they put off getting out of bed at all just to be together a little longer.  

She shook her head to clear it and washed up.  Then she picked out a skirt and blouse and other necessaries, trying not to fuss.  It wasn’t as though he didn’t already know what she looked like, was it?

He did have two cups of coffee ready, with hers exactly how she liked it, by the time she got downstairs.  He was sitting at the table, looking at a file.  “You always bring your work home with you?” he asked.  There was amusement in his tone but also sympathy, and she could tell that he wasn’t trying to criticize.

She shrugged.  “What else am I going to do- watch television?”

He laughed.  “People do.”

She laughed too.  She took her cup and pulled up a chair to sit alongside him. 

That was how they spent most of the morning, chatting about the case and sipping their coffee.  When it was time, he followed her to the car and they drove in to work. 

John seemed fine all the way to the elevator- but then he settled against the back wall, looking uncomfortable for the first time since her bedroom.  He crossed his arms tight across his chest and said, “You sure you shouldn’t go in first?”

There were, Martha thought, only two reasons for him to ask her that.  Because he actually didn’t want the team to see him with her, or because he still thought she wouldn’t want them to see her with him.  There wasn’t a great deal she could do, if it was the former, but if it was the latter... “Do you _want_ me to go in first?” she asked, looking at him hard.  He had taught her to read people better than she had been able to do before.  He had taught her to see the little cracks in the veneer that would answer whatever question she asked better than any words were likely to do.  And she saw it.  She saw the flicker, saw him hesitate.

Suddenly it was like her hands had a mind of their own.  They reached out, gripping him by the jacket lapels and pulling him forward.  He went willingly enough, exhaling softly when her lips met his and- almost immediately- kissing her back.  His mouth was so warm, and his hands came to rest so tenderly on her waist. 

“I don’t want to go in first,” she said when she finally broke away.

He exhaled again, eyes alight.  “All right,” he replied, hands lingering. 

The doors slid open again almost right away, and he released her gently.  They went in together.  Through the glass Martha could see their three coworkers, and as they walked in money exchanged hands- Anthony paying off Jose.  John circled around, giving Jose a light punch on the arm and even flashing Anthony a grin.  “You better not have been betting on what I think you were.”

“If you think it was the two of you,” Jose replied, looking only faintly sheepish, “we were.”

Martha felt herself flush very slightly, but she managed to keep a straight face.  “Was your bet too late, Anthony?”

He nodded.  He scowled too, but there was humor in his eyes.

“I’m disappointed you didn’t call it, Tessa,” John said, directing his attention to her.

She was slouched behind a computer screen and scowling even deeper than Anthony.  “I’d bet that it would be ages ago,” she said.  “Really, you two?  It takes a year?”

John shrugged, catching Martha’s eye with a soft smile.

“Sometimes things do,” Martha said, smiling back.   

**Author's Note:**

> Come see me on [tumblr](http://potentiality-26.tumblr.com).


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